something, an' deserted. It was that cussed flapjack," confessed and explained Mr. Connors.
"What!" said Mr. Cassidy in a loud voice. "Got away! Well, we'll have to make our get-away plumb sudden or we'll never go."
At this instant the escaped man again began his bombardment from the corner of the corral and Mr. Cassidy paused, indignant at the fusillade which tore up the dust at his feet. He looked reproachfully at Mr. Connors and then circled out on the plain until he caught a glimpse of a fleeing cow-puncher, whose back rapidly grew smaller in the fast-increasing distance.
"That's yore friend, Red," said Mr. Cassidy as he returned from his reconnaissance. "He's that short-horn yearling. Mebby he'll come back again," he added hopefully. "Anyhow, we've got to move. He'll collect reinforcements an' mebby they all won't shoot like him. Get up on yore Clarinda an' hold th' fort for me," he ordered, pushing the farther horse over to his friend. Mr. Connors proved that an agile man can mount a restless horse and not lose the drop, and backed off three hundred yards, deftly substituting his Winchester for the Colt's. Then Mr. Cassidy likewise mounted with his attention riveted elsewhere and backed off to the side of his companion.
The bombardment commenced again from the corral, but this time Mr. Connors' rifle slid around in his lap and exploded twice. The bellicose gentleman of the corral yelled in pain and surprise and vanished.
"Purty good for a Winchester," said Mr. Cassidy in doubtful congratulation.
"That's why I got him," snapped Mr. Connors in brief reply, and then he laughed. "Is them th' vigilantes what never let a man get away?" he scornfully asked, backing down the street and patting his Winchester.
"Well, Red, they wasn't all there. They was only twelve all
